


Fleeting

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 12:51:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6520504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You shouldn't have come here," Aramis says. (coda fic for 3x01)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fleeting

**Author's Note:**

> This is in response to a prompt for " Whatever Porthos suggests, Aramis always agrees. This time is different." I got the prompt weeks ago so I very much doubt this is quite what the anon had in mind, but I just finished watching 3x01 and so... this happened. **SPOILERS, OF COURSE.**
> 
> This is what I imagine the meeting between the boys and Aramis was like, at the end of 2x10.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Aramis says, when the Abbot relents and leads Aramis out into the courtyard to greet the three musketeers waiting for him. He is not smiling. In fact, he looks pained – disquieted and unpeaceful. 

Out of all the things he thought Aramis would say, that hadn’t been what Porthos expected. The smile slips from his lips as quickly as it’d bloomed, a hopeful and small little thing – and now dashed. Aramis looks scared. He’s never looked scared of them before. 

Porthos jumps down off his horse, Athos and d’Artagnan moving slower behind him as he steps forward. Aramis stands his ground as Porthos approaches, looks helpless and hopeless when Porthos strays too close. 

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Aramis whispers, and up close it’s clear to see that he is heartbroken. Not angry, not disappointed – just sad. His shoulders are weighted down with everything that’s happened over the last week. Porthos can’t blame him, but—

The small and hopeful part of him, twisted up in his gut, shivers and twists more – then disappears. As quickly as hope bloomed, it wilts. His hand strays absently to his belt, the blue sash curled around it. Aramis glances down, must see it, but looks away quickly. 

They all stand there. Porthos feels like a fool.

The Abbot breaks the silence, addresses Athos as the leader and mentions letting them rest. The gates are closed by the brothers, a few others step forward to take the horses, to dress them down and water them. And still Aramis is looking at Porthos as if he’s been shoved up against a ghost. Athos follows the Abbot, and d’Artagnan looks between the two, hesitating – before Athos grasps him by the elbow and leads him away with him. Athos was always too shrewd when it came to Aramis and Porthos. 

Still, being alone like this with Aramis – suddenly, it feels like a mistake. His throat closes up. 

Aramis looks similarly overwhelmed. He turns, moves away. Porthos, numb, unsure why he’s doing it – follows him, somewhat desperately. Now that he’s here, now that he’s so close to him coming back with him – he can’t really stand to let him out of his sight. 

“Aramis,” he says. 

Aramis doesn’t stop, just keeps walking. Doesn’t look at him. His hands are shaking where they’ve twisted up in the robes he’s wearing. Already submerging himself in the mythos of the monastery – already looks like one of them, if not for the soldier’s walk, the callused hands of a soldier, the dark, heavy gaze of a lost soldier. 

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Aramis says, softer now – and now Porthos recognizes it as the plea it is. Desperation. Devastation. 

“We came to bring you back,” Porthos says, equally as desperate – needs to make him understand— “We’re at war, Aramis. With Spain.” 

Aramis stops. Looks up at the long rope leading to the church bell. He blinks once, heaves in a breath, and then closes his eyes. The sun touches his cheeks. It’s early autumn, the leaves around them different colors. Aramis tries desperately to steady his breathing.

“I can’t,” Aramis whispers, “Please understand, Porthos. I made a vow.” 

Porthos falls into a steady, pained silence. He glares down at the ground, at his boots. Fists his hands at his side. 

“And what about ‘all for one’? What about that vow?” Porthos asks, knows it is cruelty to ask it, like this – knows that he can’t even begin to disguise the pain in his voice. Aramis flinches. Porthos does not take the words back. “Aramis,” he says quietly. “Please.” 

Aramis’ breath heaves out, he turns towards him – and steps into his space. He looks as if he will speak – but his eyes fall on the blue sash Porthos wears, looks at the way Porthos looks at him, the ringing silence of _please please please_ following them—

Porthos asks him for so little, so rarely asks, so rarely begs—

When he kisses Porthos, somewhat desperately, pushing him to the wall – Porthos responds. It is the work of a split second between them and then they close the distance – their mouths colliding almost violently. It is more need than any sort of passion, any sort of love. But it is a fleeting thing. There is an end even before this beginning. Aramis grips the front of his coat tightly, drags his teeth over his bottom lip, presses against him full-bodied. But just as he holds Porthos down so tightly, Porthos knows it is transitory: knows that Aramis holds him this tightly, this possessively only _because_ he will release him. Only because he knows he will let go. 

Porthos knows this, even as Aramis abruptly breaks away, turns his face. Says, “Forgive me, Porthos.”

It would be easy to refuse the apology. It would be easy to – the words are there in his throat, an accusatory _what will you do if I don’t accept?_

But it dies in his throat before it can truly form. He knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he can never be truly angry. The twisting, raw pain in his chest is not anger – it is only pain. A painful understanding that he had already lost Aramis long before they came here, long before Aramis turned and walked away down the long lane leading from the palace. Understood that Aramis had already taken a vow, and the vow of brotherhood could not dismantle it. He is not enough to make him turn from God. 

“You,” Aramis whispers, “shouldn’t come here again.” 

Porthos clenches his eyes shut, fights back the involuntary wave of tears that press to the back of his eyes. He’s already said goodbye to Aramis. And now he must do so again. This time, possibly forever. War is looming. He does not know if he will survive it. He does not know if he will ever see Aramis again—

_You shouldn’t come here again—_

_You shouldn’t have come here—_

He rattles in a shaky breath, turns, and storms away. He grabs the reins of his horse from an unknowing brother and demands the gates be open. Athos and d’Artagnan will join him later. But he cannot stay. 

He swings up onto the horse. Does not let himself look behind him as he rides off. He will not come back here again. That much, at least, he can give to Aramis – and maybe he’ll find some peace. Maybe he’ll forget everything.

_What about all for one?_

Four years from this moment, Porthos will look up towards the monastery of Douai – a monastery he’s known exactly where it stands since first stomping across a war front so close to that peaceful refuge – and he will think, _I shouldn’t go in there._ He will think, _What if Aramis is already dead?_ He will think, _What if he isn’t there?_ He will think, _What if he is?_

He’ll ask Athos if they shouldn’t report back. It is the only time in his life when he can rightfully call himself a coward – straying away from what’s lying out before him, afraid of what he’ll see, afraid of what will be there – or what had already been long lost. 

_You shouldn’t have come here._


End file.
